


feels like insomnia (woah)

by skylights



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Bond is one of them, Crack, Fluff, M/M, Q has problems, because of OOCness, but not really, maybe a little, not even sorry, so I finally watched Skyfall and this happened, this is going nowhere, unless Bond steals his food again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-24
Updated: 2012-11-24
Packaged: 2017-11-19 09:43:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/571915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skylights/pseuds/skylights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q, on the other hand, is having significantly less trouble with coming to terms as to how he currently has a slightly drunk double-oh agent standing in his flat at arse-o’-clock in the morning. Without waiting for a reply, Q starts the vacuum up again and starts to clean the patch of carpet next to Bond’s feet. The vacuum nozzle bumps against Bond’s patent leather shoes a few times and Q grunts, a clear sign that Bond should move. </p><p>Bond moves.</p><p>(or, that fic where Q has insomnia and Bond tries to be helpful)</p>
            </blockquote>





	feels like insomnia (woah)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【中譯】feels like insomnia (woah)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/696288) by [elendil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elendil/pseuds/elendil)
  * Translation into Русский available: [Ух ты, похоже, бессонница (feels like insomnia (woah)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/732084) by [littledoctor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledoctor/pseuds/littledoctor)
  * Translation into Deutsch available: [Und oh, Schlaflosigkeit fühlt sich nach dir an](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2097219) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account)



> Russian translation by [littledoctor](http://archiveofourown.org/users/littledoctor) also available [here](http://wtfcombat.diary.ru/p185139163.htm?from=last&discuss)
> 
> German translation by [DontDrinkColdCoffee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DontDrinkColdCoffee) available [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2097219)

Q is vacuuming the carpet of his living room when he looks up to see Bond perched outside his window, somehow having found purchase on the tiny ledge there. It’s 4:20am and Q lives on the 22nd floor.

Somehow, the set-up of this entire situation is highly unsurprising.

“What do you want?” Q snaps tiredly when he slides the window open and Bond climbs in, somehow maintaining catlike grace despite smelling like alcohol. “And don’t step on the carpet, I just– oh _hell_.”

Bond looks up quizzically and Q realises that he’s still holding the vacuum which he now brandishes in front of Bond’s face. Bond stares at it like it’s about to eat him whole.

“It’s a household cleaning device, if you were wondering,” Q says, all matter-of-fact. “Sucks dirt and dust up the nozzle, makes it all go into a bag that needs to be emptied?”

“I know what a vacuum cleaner is, ta,” comes the dry reply. Q sets the vacuum to the carpet again.

“Well then, quit staring at it like it’s going attack you.”

“I’m not…why are you vacuuming at 4 bloody am to begin with?” Bond has a look of utter disbelief on his face, as if trying very hard and failing to compute why anyone would subject themselves to housework at such an ungodly hour, or even subject themselves to housework to begin with.

“And I should ask you what you’re doing in my flat at the exact same time, but I think I already know the answer.”

Q, on the other hand, is having significantly less trouble with coming to terms as to how he currently has a slightly drunk double-oh agent standing in his flat at arse-o’-clock in the morning. Without waiting for a reply, Q starts the vacuum up again and starts to clean the patch of carpet next to Bond’s feet. The vacuum nozzle bumps against Bond’s patent leather shoes a few times and Q grunts, a clear sign that Bond should move. 

Bond moves.

“I clean when I can’t sleep,” Q offers up after a few minutes have gone by and Bond has retreated to the couch, shoes off and legs tucked under him so that Q can get the space under the couch. “And I suppose you break into flats when you’re drunk?”

“I wouldn’t have pegged you down as an insomniac,” is all Bond says, to which Q snaps “And yet, anyone with two connecting nerve cells can peg _you_ as being two bottles away from being a drunkard.”

“I am not _drunk_ , and neither am I anywhere close to being a drunkard.”

“And yet, here you are sitting in my flat, on my couch.” 

Q wonders whether tolerating this makes him crazier than the man who has just scaled 22 floors while nursing a blood alcohol level that's too high for driving. The fact that they sometimes shag on Q’s desk at work has absolutely nothing to do with tolerance, by the way. “Do you even remember how you got in here?” 

A pause. A very, very long pause. Q takes the time to try vacuuming under the television cabinet.

“Through the window,” Bond says tentatively. “It was that or brave your doorman.”

“Higgins is a perfectly nice gentleman, even if he might still hold a bit of a grudge against you for that time with the–“

“Oh for god’s sake, we were on level seven for security and he really shouldn’t have been hanging around your flat at odd hours.”

“Bond,” Q says tiredly. “He’s the _night doorman_.”

Bond knows a lost argument when he sees one so he drops it at that, feet planted squarely on the ground again. Q wonders what Bond’s reaction would be if he were to try vacuuming Bond’s trouser-leg this very instant. Probably pull a gun on him or put him in a choke hold, if missions past are anything to go by. 

_God_ , Q thinks to himself blearily and switches the vacuum cleaner off. _I need some fucking sleep_.

  


* * *

  


“Does cleaning really help you sleep?”

Q empties the vacuum's dust bag into the bin and Bond is now sitting at Q's kitchen table, having apparently rummaged through Q’s fridge in the few minutes that Q had his back turned. He’s cradling a half-opened carton of chocolate milk and a banana that Q had been saving for later that day. Bloody food-stealing bastard.

“Most people count sheep,” Bond continues and takes a swig right out of the carton, wincing as he swallows. “Or pop a sleeping pill. Maybe both, if they’re feeling particularly dangerous that night.”

“Unlike some people, I’m not so quick to self-medicate when things don’t go the way I want them to,” Q says pointedly. He washes his hands at the sink and attempts to rescue his banana before Bond can get at it, hangover cures for Her Majesty’s secret agents be damned to hell and back when Q's own breakfast is at stake. “Some people take pills, I prefer to clean." The banana goes back into the fridge. Bond gets to keep the milk.

The sad thing is that this isn’t the first time this has happened, even if it’s the first time Bond has actually caught Q cleaning. Why Bond chooses to go drinking in Q’s part of the city and then decide that it’s the best course of action to hide out at Q’s flat until he’s fit to drive home, Q thinks he’ll never know. Some part of Q figures that he doesn’t even _want_ to know. 

“What are you looking so thoughtful about?” grunts Bond. It’s an hour to sunrise and the after-effects of last night are probably starting to kick in, milk or no milk. Q sits down at the table with a mug and steals his milk carton back, pouring some of it out to drink like a decent adult. 

“What do you do when you can’t sleep, 007?”

Bond looks surprised at this attempt at a civil conversation and Q knows for a fact that Bond still counts it a miracle each time Q doesn’t throw him out of the flat right after showing up. That one time in August with the broken windowpane, a bottle of Glenlivet and Q’s new tablet has never been repeated, but Q has been far more picky with his house guests ever since, especially if they insist on coming in through the living room window.

“Maybe heat up the blood of your enemies and have a nice hot soak in it?” prompts Q when Bond is still quiet. “Is that how you keep your dashing good looks?”

A smile gets drawn out of Bond at this and another thing that Q knows is that he _really_ should get some sleep within the next few hours if he’s starting to spout such nonsense in front of Bond. His only consolation at the moment is that Bond's probably too plastered himself to retain too much of this conversation later on.

“My dashing good looks are genetic, sorry to disappoint.” Bond finishes the milk, still smiling. “And no, I prefer to just roll around in the vials because bloodstains in the bathtub make my housekeeper angry.”

Q tells himself it’s the sleep deprivation that makes him laugh, but when he throws a dish rag at Bond with instructions to clean the kitchen table on his way out, it’s with considerably less force than usual. 

  


* * *

  


The next time Q walks into his kitchen, the tabletop sparkles and Bond is gone. Huh. So the internet was actually right about chocolate milk being a hangover remedy.

  


* * *

  


Bond has nowhere to be today, which means that he’s here at Q branch, being a general nuisance and swapping Q’s tea for something that tastes absolutely ghastly.

“It’s chamomile,” Bond says helpfully. Q considers emptying the mug into a nearby potted plant that Eve had insisted on putting on his desk. 

“It’s shit.”

“And it’s supposed to help you sleep.”

Q eyes the mug as if it contains cyanide instead of tea before deciding that yes, the sentiment is appreciated and yes, perhaps he will be the bigger man today and drink at least one more mouthful of the wretched thing. Knowing Bond though, it might be laced with anything from sedatives from the medical bay to store-bought laxatives.

“Thank you,” Q says and takes a sip. Bond looks just a hint pleased.

  


* * *

  


The tea doesn’t work. Q manages to convince his body to shut down for two hours before he’s wide awake again and back at work, dark circles under his eyes.

“Good try though,” he tells Bond who just sets his mouth into a thin line before going off to catch his flight to Chicago.

  


* * *

  


Over time, Q has learned to acquaint himself with some of Bond’s worst habits. His inability to bring field equipment back in one piece, for one. His affinity for leaving bite marks in particularly obvious places whenever they use lunch hours for something other than lunch.

And today, Q is reminded of how Bond likes to bring back horrendous excuses for souvenirs whenever the fancy strikes him. The miniature crocodile wearing a charming cork hat inside his bottom drawer does not officially exist. Neither does the small, black box that proclaims to hold something from the “Hello Kitty Zombie Friends” line. Whatever the heck that is.

“Go the fuck to sleep?” Q reads the title out loud, turning the book over in his hands. “You bought me a _picture book_?”

“It’s all the rage, apparently.”

Bond killed three people in Chicago and still managed to fit time into his schedule for this. Q thinks he should be touched, but then again Bond brought his Walther back in five pieces, so Q has to settle for something a bit less that that.

“Thank you?” Q says because that’s what adults do. Even the ones that make explosives for a living.

“I can read it to you if you’d like.” 

“May I remind you that you still have a debriefing report to file, 007.”

  


* * *

  


Q thinks he has to reexamine his life choices when he walks into his flat later that night and finds Bond lounging on his couch, flipping through “Go the Fuck to Sleep”.

“You don’t smell drunk,” Q says as he hangs his coat up and kicks his shoes off. He’s vaguely thankful that he didn’t choose to go with the Batman socks today. “And you’re not bleeding over my upholstery so what in god’s name are you doing here?”

Bond holds the picture book up and Q groans.

“Out. Get out.” Q is tired out of his mind after hacking through eleven different systems and his flat is as clean as it’ll ever get. He even scrubbed the bathroom tiles last night, so there’s nothing left to clean.

“Not before we get this done. Humour me, Q, I just wrote more than fifteen pages of reasons as to why the fine city of Chicago no longer welcomes me within her borders.”

“And how about you humour me and go home because I need to sleep?”

Arguing with a double-oh is like having a fight with a brick wall. Arguing with James Bond, on the other hand, when he has made his mind up about something, is like having a fight with a brick wall that fights the fuck back and fights dirty, at that.

“Will I have to sit on you to make you listen?”

Q rolls his eyes from where he’s currently pinned, side to couch and cheek to seat. 

“Oh by all means, lets get this over with. One does not simply buy another man a picture book and not read it to him, after all. Now let me up, I’m getting a crick in my back.”

  


* * *

  


Q sits beside Bond on the couch and the book is much funnier than they expect it to be. At some point, Q is sure that he’s laughing this hard only because being awake for 49 hours straight makes everything funnier than it should be, but then Q opens his eyes to find sunlight streaming through the windows and an armful of secret agent curled up against him on the couch. Everything hurts like the devil himself.

Suddenly, Q isn’t sure of anything at all any more.

  


* * *

  


(Q falls asleep by Bond’s side, breathing growing deeper and deeper as Bond dramatises his way through the book. By the time Bond cares to look, Q is fast asleep and leaning into Bond, glasses slipping down his nose. 

Bond has an internal battle with himself then: Should he remove Q’s glasses and tactfully extract himself from Q’s side? What if Q wakes up? Or should he wait until Q snaps out of it and then proceed with the extraction? What if Q _doesn’t_ wake up?

But then Q shifts in the first deep sleep he’s had in months, head nestling against the crook of Bond’s shoulder and that’s that.)

  


* * *

  


“You were sleeping last night.” Bond has made himself scarce for most of the day, right up till now. Q is tinkering with something that looks like desconstructed, black Lego pieces, but more explosive. 

“Excellent observation, 007. I’m sure that we all covered how night-time is for sleep during the agent-training sessions.”

If it’s even possible, Q seems more cranky when he has actually slept well. Or maybe that’s just from how Q had managed to wake up this morning with his limbs practically tangled with Bond’s and Q had almost fallen off the couch trying to get up. 

“So. Picture books, Q?”

“Go away.” Q waves a screwdriver at Bond’s general direction. “I’m working.”

Bond drops the topic, but he leaves the lab wearing the biggest shit-eating grin that Q has ever seen.

  


* * *

  


When Bond turns up at Q’s flat again that night, Q thinks nothing about kicking Bond out.

“Don’t you have terrorists to kill or something?” Q snaps, exasperated.

“Don’t you have a bedtime story that needs listening to?” Bond retorts loudly from the elevator area and Q slams the door shut.

  


* * *

  


Q cleans his flat three times more than necessary that week. The picture book remains on the coffee table and Q knows this has nothing to do at all with the bloody picture book in the slightest.

  


* * *

  


“When was the last time you slept?” Eve asks when Q accidentally spills tea all over his keyboard and knocks over a monitor in the process of trying to clean up. He’s aware that he looks like hell itself, but there’s only so much that cold water in the face and on one memorable morning when he was due for a meeting with M, ice cubs against his eyes, can do. Its been a bad week for sleep. Bond’s over in Cuba working with the CIA over some drug lord or other, so that means Q doesn’t even have anyone to talk to on the nights he cleans at 3am.

“Last Thursday.”

Eve gives Q a look that says _you’re fucking with me_ , to which Q just shrugs. 

“I’m fine,” he insists, straightening his monitor before going to shake the keyboard over the waste bin, cold tea dripping out of it. “I always knew I took my tea black for a reason.”

“We’re not talking about your tea-drinking habits right now, Q.”

“Sorry, was there another topic before this?”

Another look and Q sets the keyboard back down, gingerly tapping at the space bar as he tries his best to ignore Eve staring a hole into his back. 

“I’m going to put in a leave request for you,” she finally says. “And you’re going to take it.”

“But–“

“And you’re not going to argue about it. England will still stand, don’t worry, we’ve been doing this for longer than you’ve been alive.”

 _But I’m not going to be able to sleep anyways_ , Q wants to say, but then Eve is already tapping her way out on her stilettos and Q finds himself with a two day leave.

  


* * *

  


On day two, Q comes home with curry and finds Bond on his couch, trying to beat his Mario Kart scores on the Wii Q had dug out the day before.

“And how was Cuba?” Q asks conversationally as he sets the curry down in the kitchen. Having a trained killer in his house at odd hours no longer surprises him, which says a lot about what Q has to deal with on a daily basis.

“Good. Hot. A tad violent.”

“Blew buildings up?”

“Oh, plenty.” 

On-screen, Bond narrowly avoids a banana peel, only to be knocked off course by a koopa shell. “Goddammit,” he swears, loud enough to be heard from the kitchen. Q thinks he’s seen stranger things in life and goes back to reheating his curry.

  


* * *

  


Q doesn’t share his curry with Bond because people who break into other people’s houses don’t get food, but Bond steals some all the same. 

“I thought you were more of a Call of Duty sort of person,” he says as he eats next to Bond, who’s currently racing against Q’s ghost from last night’s game play. 

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Bond might be stellar at disarming bombs, rescuing distressed women and saving entire countries, but he’s absolute shit at virtual go-kart racing. Q takes some comfort in this, along with the fact that Bond seems to get worse when Q attempts to be a backseat driver.

“I can see the bloody mushroom!”

“Then get the fucking thing!”

“How can you take out terrorist cells single-handedly and not have enough hand-eye coordination to navigate a virtual dinosaur on a bike?”

“It’s _different_ ,” Bond grunts, distracted. The Yoshi he’s playing slams into a cow that’s inexplicably standing in the middle of the track. “It’s _very different_.”

  


* * *

  


Q prides himself on being able to hack into most major security systems _and_ maintain a three-star rank on Mario Kart without having to tamper with the system. By the time Q has beaten Bond’s competitive streak into a pulp, they’re sitting with their knees touching, an almost finished container of curry between them. 

  


* * *

  


One moment, Q is certain that he’s coming in 2nd behind Princess Peach and the the next, he’s waking up sprawled in an incredibly strange position on top of Bond, the two of them having apparently kipped out on Q’s couch yet again.

It’s nine in the morning.

“Fuck it,” Q groans softly. Beneath him, Bond shifts at the sound without coming awake, a comfortable warmth that Q grudgingly admits isn’t all _that_ bad after all. Perhaps...

The next time Q wakes up, it’s nearly noon.

  


* * *

  


(Q falls asleep by Bond’s side again, movements growing sloppier as they tear through colourful tracks to hyper-souding electronica. By the time Bond hits the pause button, Q’s head is dropping against Bond’s shoulder and Q’s controls are lying unused on his lap. His glasses are slipping down his nose again.

This time, Bond removes both glasses and controls, nudges the curry container to the side as gently as possible. Q sleeps on. There is no internal battle.)

  


* * *

  


“So. Pictures books _and_ Mario Kart?” 

Q is making lunch in the kitchen when Bond saunters in like he owns the place, making a sudden reappearance in fresh clothes after disappearing around one in the afternoon. Given the amount of time Bond is spending here, Q thinks he really should consider asking Bond to chip in for rent. 

“I’d ask you if you’d like some salad, but I was under the impression that you only eat the flesh of your dead enemies.” A few cherry tomatoes goes into the bowl and Q starts slicing up a carrot, blatantly ignoring the question from before. It’s not as if the both of them haven’t already figured out the actual answer by now, as horrific as it may be. God, he must have been a mass murderer in his past life to deserve this.

“Grilled dictator tastes superb,” Bond says dryly, wandering over to the kitchen counter. Q resists the urge to smack Bond’s hand when Bond reaches into the salad bowl to pick out a tomato. “You should try it some time.”

  


* * *

  


Q goes to work with an aching back and comes home to a waiting double-oh agent who’s watching the telly in his the living room.

“Bond, if this is some sort of pet experiment of yours to see how much of my personal space you can invade in a given time, I’d greatly appreciate it if you cease and desist.” The other night on the couch has definitely realigned something in his spine and all Q really wants to do right now is lie on his bed, not spend his time trying to find ways to amuse Bond. “Don’t you have your own flat to terrorise?”

“It’s not called terrorising when there’s no one to terrorise.” Bond has his feet up on the coffee table. Q glares at him until they get put down again. “Have you been sleeping well?”

“Since when is that any of your concern?”

“Seeing that you make explosives during your day job and I happen to use most of those explosives, yes, it is indeed some of my concern.” Bond gets a look on his face that Q isn’t sure how to interpret. Amusement, perhaps? Fondness? “One can say that I have a…personal interest.”

“Don’t be coy, 007, it’s rather unbecoming for a middle-aged man.”

Q drops onto the couch to stare resolutely at the telly showing the nine pm news. If Q had a personal psychiatrist, he or she would probably have a field day with this entire fiasco, throwing out theories about how Q lacks security and how given the nature of his job, it shouldn’t be any surprise that he draws upon Bond’s presence for that. Even in his head, it sounds like the biggest load of rubbish Q has ever heard and this is in comparison to the field reports that Bond files, which for the record, is a huge fucking load of rubbish.

Next to him, Bond flips through channels, finally settling on a documentary of some sort. The camera pans in on a family of ducks and Q silently weighs his options. 

There’s a coup to prevent tomorrow. He should probably be at the top of his game, no spilt tea and clumsy hands. But then again, he clocked in a solid twelve hours of sleep the other day so he should be good for at least another week or so.

“Stop thinking,” Bond says next to him, toying with the remote control. The ducks seem to be having some sort of crisis or other, something major that involves lots of flapping and duck sounds. 

“Sorry, I wasn’t aware that it’s a crime. Just because you don’t do it enough doesn’t mean that others shouldn’t.”

Bond only shushes him and Q knows he’s giving up too easily at this point. He really does want to know what’s happening to the ducks, though, or at least that’s what he tells himself.

  


* * *

  


Q finds out that working his way around the security systems of the Ugandan government is much easier on eight hours of sleep.

Q also finds out how much of a sheet-hogger Bond is, how Bond has cold feet in the morning and how Bond is actually a cuddler, even if he doesn’t look like it.

And last, but not least, Q finds out that he’s incredibly, irreversibly and irrevocably screwed.

On eight hours of sleep though, it’s really not as bad as it sounds.

  


* * *

  


“Should I update my resume to read _brings new dimension to term sleeper agent_?”

“MI6 never planted you anywhere long term, stop deluding yourself.”

“But you’re not protesting to the part about the new dimensions?”

“I think the term _over-glorified sleep aid_ covers things better.”

Bond has his arm thrown lazily over Q, the both of them on their backs.

“I should claim expenses for this.”

“You mean for sleeping in my bed, in my flat, along with eating my food and using my things?” 

“I mean for ensuring the health and well-being of one of MI6’s assets.”

A yawn and Q turns onto his side, knees drawn up towards himself. His eyes are already slipping shut.

“Go over it with M yourself then, perhaps the both of you can work something out.”

Another yawn, from Bond this time around.

“Do you think we can claim cohabitation benefits?”

Q snorts and stretches a little, stealing some of the sheets back in the process.

“There are little, if any benefits for cohabitation when compared to civil partnerships and the like,” he says sleepily. “Read up on our country’s rights once in a while, Bond.”

“…that was probably the most unromantic proposal I’ve ever heard in my life.” Even with his eyes closed, Q can still imagine the look on Bond’s face as he says this. He retaliates with a well placed elbow to Bond’s ribs. 

“Oh go to _sleep_.”

**Author's Note:**

> [go the fuck to sleep, as read by Samuel L. Jackson](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m0jCsKbPSpc)
> 
> and
> 
> even though the lyrics have nothing to do with the fic, [this is where the title is from](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VkxVxZX1dKY) :D


End file.
